She lit hers. ‘This is for Gilbert, who I did not deserve and who I was too proud to accept. If God chooses to reunite us in spirit, I will accept his decision.’
I lit my own candle. ‘This is for you, Camille.’ Images of that trip that changed my life—our lives—flashed before me. My mother’s fury stemming from narrow minded doctrines that were her truth—that made her fear for me and herself. And Camille’s own fear, and then the lost look, the dullness as if her light had gone out. I looked into her eyes now and was no longer sure what was left behind them in the jumble of her mind. ‘Camille.’ I took her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
And finally, after almost thirty years, Camille lifted the burden that had shaken the universe so hard that I had lost touch with the fundamental truths I believed about myself and which could have sent me veering off to live a life where I would have made both myself and Camille unhappy.
‘I forgive you, Zoe.’
80
MARTIN
‘Can I ask your advice on something, Dad?’
Sarah and I were walking together, as were Zoe and Camille, their relationship visibly lightened, even in the face of what had happened. Bernhard had pushed ahead, chastened.
We had invited Grietje to walk this final leg with us. Given what she had facilitated between Zoe and Camille, I did not want her to disappear without us showing our gratitude.
Before we set off, I’d given her the spare wooden tau that I’d carried in my pack since day one in Sainte Cécile. She was quite moved, and I imagine she thought it had been Gilbert’s. I saw no reason to tell her anything different.
She was walking alone now, as she had apparently done from Brussels, not far ahead of us.
We’d always walked in pairs, so I wasn’t as conscious of Gilbert’s absence as I might have been. My hangover from commemorating his passing in the way he would have wanted was beginning to fade in the cool air. He’d come so close to making it—not that it mattered now.
And now Sarah was asking for my advice. The Chemin had changed us all.
‘I’m happy to tell you what I think. But you make your own decisions.’
‘I know. This isn’t the question, but do you want to know what Monsieur Chevalier said to me?’
‘That the Chemin would set you free?’
‘I think I told you that. But it has. I might not go to Africa, but I could. I can do whatever I want: I can go back to medicine; I can study engineering anywhere I like…’
‘I suppose you always had those choices.’
‘Except that wasn’t how it felt. And not always: at school I didn’t, and then I just sort of kept going with what you and Mum expected…’
‘They fuck you up.’
‘Dad!’
‘We all have choices. But you can’t have everything. I mean you can’t study medicine and engineering and go to Africa and be with Bernhard. Not all at once. I think what Monsieur Chevalier has observed is that these long walks give people a chance to decide what’s important to them. And what isn’t, which is what the freedom’s about.’
‘And realising you’re free to make your own choices.’
‘Fair point.’
‘What do you think I should do about Bernhard?’
‘That’s your question?’
‘I know you think he’s a bit of a dick, and he can be, but last night he was pretty upset.’
‘Don’t let that drive your decision. We were all upset.’
‘He felt responsible for…Which he wasn’t. But he felt bad about not supporting me.’
‘Rightly so. Him and me both. We made mistakes, but it doesn’t seem that anything we could have done would have changed the outcome. Once Gilbert had chosen to walk in the first place.’
‘I know. But Bernhard went back over all the times he thought he’d pushed me…taken over. Big things like the wind turbines and engineering, and little stuff like what brand of muesli to buy. Sort of funny. He’s definitely an engineer. And said if I gave him a second chance…’
‘We say that to first-years. All engineers make mistakes; good engineers don’t repeat them. But we’re not talking about engineering. Changing yourself is hard.’
‘I know. But it was my fault, too. I guess I was a bit afraid to make my own choices. Since certain parents got me into the habit of having them made for me. So, all hail Monsieur Chevalier.’
‘So, what do you want to do?’
‘Still thinking. That’s the problem with freedom.’ She smiled. ‘What about you?’
‘Back to Sheffield, same flat, same job. I got an email a couple of days ago. They’ve approved the leave.’
‘Zoe?’
‘I think she’ll stay with Camille a while. Not forever. I could see Camille and Grietje getting together and doing pilgrim welcomes. But I’m hoping that when it’s all sorted, Zoe will come to Sheffield.’
‘Wow. The Chemin really set you free, didn’t it?’
I’d walked a thousand miles, minus the short cut. We were on the outskirts of Rome—our last day.
‘What do you want me to say: sell my flat, move to France, buy a hostel with Zoe, use her money too so everything’s on the line, install Camille as cook, run classes on architecture and creativity and drawing, and then try to deal with it all when Camille gets sicker and we get one pilgrim a week and nobody signs up for the retreats?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
•
I left Sarah and set off after Bernhard. Not as easy as I thought: he was well in front and I had to do the army thing of alternating five minutes walking with five minutes jogging.
‘Can you wait for us?’ I said when I caught him. ‘We should walk in together.’
It was a moment before he nodded. ‘And I should apologise to everyone before we do. I made a terrible mistake because of my ego. As Sarah said, you were right about me.’
Ouch.
‘We all make mistakes,’ I said, wondering where to take it. A couple of engineers reviewing their decisions a day after their friend had died.
‘And I got it wrong, too,’ I said after a while.
‘Camille…is okay?’
‘She will be.’
‘I think perhaps she should do pilgrims’ welcomes. At her home in Cluny. She reminds me of the women who looked after me on the way to Santiago.’
I wasn’t going to go there. But he was right—I could see Camille and Grietje and a life-sized Jesus in the spare bedroom.
‘Do you think Sarah will forgive me?’
Tough question. ‘I don’t think it’ll be enough for Sarah for you to apologise for making a mistake. She’s going to be looking at why that happened and why it won’t happen again.’
‘She thinks I want to be in charge of everything.’
‘I think that’s a fairly accurate reading.’
‘It will be difficult to change.’
‘It will. It’s difficult for all of us. But if you can manage it and Sarah wants to be with you—what did they used to say? You have my blessing.’
81
ZOE
We got our first sight of Rome and St Peter’s from Monte Mario as the path began its descent through a reserve. Camille had been slow all day, stumbling quite often. I wasn’t sure if it was the stress of Gilbert’s death, or that Gilbert had been doing more than we realised to keep her going: I’d had to help her dress and she struggled to choose from her limited selection of clothes.
We paused to take it in. The Eternal City, a city of art and history and religion. The oldest inhabited city I had ever been in, where Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci and, long before them, the Apostle Paul had walked.
I looked at Camille and saw light in her eyes. Perhaps the achievement would be enough for her.
The rain had started, and the descent was treacherous. Camille slipped twice on the wet wooden edges, and Martin and Bernhard moved into position behind her, Grietje beside her, and Sarah and me in front. We were all relieved when we finally got down, eve
n though it meant trading the grass and trees for the shops and apartments of outer Rome.
I saw the police—maybe eight of them—as we turned into the road to St Peter’s, with half a mile to go. One got off her motorbike and came over.
‘Which one of you is the widow, please?’
Camille pointed to me. Technically true.
The carabiniere, whose name was Enrica, hugged me. I tried to explain. ‘No, not me: her.’
There was confusion for a few moments, until we worked out that one of the nurses at the hospital where Gilbert had been taken was Enrica’s partner.
‘We will escort you to St Peter’s,’ said Enrica.
‘We’ve walked this far,’ said Martin. ‘I reckon we’ll be okay.’
Enrica was not deterred. To Camille’s bemusement, the cops flanked us on either side as we walked. There was nobody to shield us from—at first. Then people—mainly tourists, I guess—started gathering, despite the rain, which was now pouring down. They must have thought any procession to St Peter’s meant something.
It was surreal, and I may have excluded religion from my life for the better part of thirty years but this—this transcended all I had cast aside. My legs felt like jelly…like I was carrying thousands of years of tradition.
‘Are they here for Gilbert?’ Camille asked. ‘The police, too?’
Just six bedraggled pilgrims who had walked a thousand miles. Not the first, nor the last, who would seek salvation in the isolated mountains, in the rain and heat and the history of Europe that had enfolded us.
Though we had been able to see the dome over rooftops for the last mile, it was still a shock to be suddenly between the huge pillars that formed the half-circle before St Peter’s, thinking: We’re here. Camille is here. Despite everything. By the time I turned to see the basilica, in all its magnificence, I was crying.
Nobody would have noticed—I hadn’t bothered with my hood and my face was wet. If it was cold, I couldn’t tell—the rain made me feel young and crazy and, despite Gilbert’s death, or perhaps because of it, I was ecstatic at being alive.
The police escort led us all the way to the steps of St Peter’s, where several robed men were waiting for us.
‘Madame Morvan?’
Camille looked at them blankly. Grietje was holding her hand.
Enrica explained. ‘Signora, when Pope Francis heard what happened and that you would still finish your pilgrimage, he has asked us to bring such a special pilgrim to have an audience.’
Ego tibi Romae propitius ero. My hand went to the dove around my neck as Camille’s went to her cross. The Pope had smiled upon us. And Gilbert had achieved what he had set out to do.
‘This is her,’ said Bernhard to one of the robed men. ‘She is in shock. Grietje’—he gestured—‘and I are supporting her.’
The welcoming committee motioned for them to follow. I had to smile: Bernhard characteristically slipping in beside the two devout Catholics for an experience he’d remember all his life.
A few paces on, he stopped and walked back. ‘Sarah and I will get our certificates.’
I looked at Sarah’s expression and wondered whether the gesture would be enough. And if the enormity of what had happened—not just Gilbert’s death but the pilgrimage setting her free—would change the course of her life, as both the road trip and the Camino had changed mine.
She nodded—no smile—but didn’t look to her father for approval as she and Bernhard headed off to finish their pilgrimage.
And I was left with Martin.
Sixty-nine days ago, I’d been sitting in a seminar in San Francisco. Today, I was standing in the rain on the steps of St Peter’s, Rome, with a man I’d thought I would never see again, after revisiting and rethinking the events that I believed had defined me. If I had ever needed proof of the mantra I’d tried to live by—that we have the power to transform our lives through self-belief and love and trust—I had it now.
I turned to Martin. ‘You asked me a question and you need an answer.’
Martin looked like he was steeling himself. I had missed out on the last three years with him—but perhaps now I was in a far better place to truly appreciate him. Thanks to the dove.
‘I love you, Martin.’
He was quiet.
‘I can’t promise I won’t sometimes need to run to a crisis in the States with my daughters, or to Camille’s side. But I can promise to try to always make the decision with you.’ I paused. ‘So, if the offer is still open, then yes, Martin Eden, I will marry you.’
It seemed a lifetime before he spoke.
‘I love you, Zoe…and Sarah may need me again, but I think the Chemin has done its job of setting her free to make her own choices.’
There was a long time without either of us speaking. I think there were quite a few whistles around us but I didn’t come up for breath until quite a crowd had gathered and started clapping.
‘She’s just agreed to marry me,’ Martin told them, and there were cheers and laughter.
‘How far have you walked?’ asked a woman my age, with the accent of my childhood.
‘Around a thousand miles,’ Martin replied.
‘Holy cow,’ her partner said. ‘Can we have our photo with you?’
After the crowd dispersed, I turned to Martin.
‘Did the walk set you free?’ I asked.
Martin looked around and smiled. ‘I’m free to make my own choices, as I always was. Slightly less bound by the past. And you?’
M. Chevalier had got it right after all. ‘Camille set me free of any obligation to her…but she’s going to need help and support. And I want to be there if she needs me.’ Even as I said it, I realised how unlikely this was. Her forgiveness had released us from whatever strange bond we had.
‘She could be the chef at our hostel.’
Martin was looking at me like he was serious.
‘You’d buy a hostel with me?’
‘That’s what you said you wanted. Remember?’
I laughed. ‘You’re going to hold me to that?’
‘If you want to be held to it.’
‘Seriously?’
Martin got his phone out and opened an email. It was from Jim the realtor about buying Le Nid de la Palombe—for Gilbert and Camille. The perfect gîte, complete with location, garden, bio food, and sometimes the sound of musicians playing, and maybe in the future artists and other creatives taking classes and doing yoga with Martin and me. All we needed to add was massage, and muesli and unsweetened yoghurt. And wine from whoever Gilbert had sold his business to. We’d think of him when we had a glass.
How many times had I said to myself: The Camino isn’t life? Telling myself that being in the best place I’d ever been wasn’t something to aspire to, but something to dismiss. And now Martin was saying: Why not?
Courage.
I threw my arms around him and was still crying and laughing when Camille and Grietje emerged from the basilica. Camille looked at me, nodded, and smiled gently.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is a bit like a pilgrimage—especially when you do it together. Lots of discussion about what is important—and letting go of what is not. Of course, there was a real chemin to walk first, while we were still grappling with what shape the story might take.
The Chemin d’Assise and Via Francigena provided that shape for us. When we were soaked in the sad, lonely but beautiful towns of Liguria, we knew this had to be where Zoe and Martin would reach their lowest point. And reaching the beauty—and better weather—of Tuscany helped shape the final act.
We were especially lucky that we were well south of Lombardy as we walked, in February 2020, when the papers were starting to fill with stories of the virus that was to dominate the year. We got out of Rome in early March and just missed having to be quarantined on our return to Australia. The lockdown gave us the time to write—and relive the walk as we did.
As always we are indebted to the feedback from our early
readers: Robert Eames, Sue Hughes, Rod Miller, Robert Sachs and Dominique Simsion, who helped us refine our characters and story, and the team at Text, especially our editor David Winter, and publisher Michael Heyward.
Many of our readers are walkers, or at least armchair travellers. To all of you: bon courage.
Graeme Simsion is the internationally bestselling author of The Rosie Project, The Rosie Effect, The Rosie Result and The Best of Adam Sharp. Anne Buist is the author of the psychological thrillers Medea’s Curse, Dangerous to Know, This I Would Kill For and The Long Shadow, and Professor of Women’s Mental Health at the University of Melbourne. They co-wrote Two Steps Forward (2017) and live together in Melbourne, Australia.
graemesimsion.com annebuist.com
facebook.com/graemesimsionauthor facebook.com/anneebuist
@graemesimsion @anneebuist
PRAISE FOR TWO STEPS FORWARD
‘Fans of The Rosie Project might recognise shades of Don Tillman…Compelling reading…[A] cast of entertaining and eccentric characters…The book’s momentum never flags… [An] entertaining and refreshingly unpredictable romance.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘A delightful tale of renewal and shedding unnecessary burdens…This is sure to be loved by fans of The Rosie Project and it’s enough to put the Camino at the top of your travel wishlist.’ Herald Sun
‘A novel of mature love and self-discovery set against the scenic backdrop of the pilgrims’ walk.’ Age
‘Simsion and Buist are Camino veterans who add detail and authority to their novel.’ Adelaide Advertiser
‘Difficult to put down until the very end.’ Big Issue
‘A beautifully crafted tale of love, self-acceptance and blisters.’ Sunday Express
‘With wit and wisdom, Simsion and Buist have crafted a novel that will have readers wanting to walk a Camino of their own.’ Kirkus Reviews
‘Smart and funny and full of the awkwardness and adrenaline of adventure and new romance.’ Whimn
textpublishing.com.au
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